Eugene Onegin. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

But could not. Then she questioned him:—

"Had he been long here, and where from?

Straight from their province had he come?"—

Cast upwards then her eyeballs dim

Unto her husband, went away—

Transfixed Oneguine mine doth stay.

XX

Is this the same Tattiana, say,

Before whom once in solitude,

In the beginning of this lay,

Deep in the distant province rude,

Impelled by zeal for moral worth,

He salutary rules poured forth?

The maid whose note he still possessed

Wherein the heart its vows expressed,

Where all upon the surface lies,—

That girl—but he must dreaming be—

That girl whom once on a time he

Could in a humble sphere despise,

Can she have been a moment gone

Thus haughty, careless in her tone?

XXI

He quits the fashionable throng

And meditative homeward goes,

Visions, now sad, now grateful, long

Do agitate his late repose.

He wakes—they with a letter come—

The Princess N. will be at home

On such a day. O Heavens, 'tis she!

Oh! I accept. And instantly

He a polite reply doth scrawl.

What hath he dreamed? What hath occurred?

In the recesses what hath stirred

Of a heart cold and cynical?

Vexation? Vanity? or strove

Again the plague of boyhood—love?

XXII

The hours once more Oneguine counts,

Impatient waits the close of day,

But ten strikes and his sledge he mounts

And gallops to her house away.

Trembling he seeks the young princess—

Tattiana finds in loneliness.

Together moments one or two

They sat, but conversation's flow

Deserted Eugene. He, distraught,

Sits by her gloomily, desponds,

Scarce to her questions he responds,

Full of exasperating thought.

He fixedly upon her stares—

She calm and unconcerned appears.

XXIII

The husband comes and interferes

With this unpleasant tete-a-tete,

With Eugene pranks of former years

And jests doth recapitulate.

They talked and laughed. The guests arrived.

The conversation was revived

By the coarse wit of worldly hate;

But round the hostess scintillate

Light sallies without coxcombry,

Awhile sound conversation seems

To banish far unworthy themes

And platitudes and pedantry,

And never was the ear affright

By liberties or loose or light.

XXIV

And yet the city's flower was there,

Noblesse and models of the mode,

Faces which we meet everywhere

And necessary fools allowed.

Behold the dames who once were fine

With roses, caps and looks malign;

Some marriageable maids behold,

Blank, unapproachable and cold.

Lo, the ambassador who speaks

Economy political,

And with gray hair ambrosial

The old man who has had his freaks,

Renowned for his acumen, wit,

But now ridiculous a bit.

XXV

Behold Sabouroff, whom the age

For baseness of the spirit scorns,

Saint Priest, who every album's page

With blunted pencil-point adorns.

Another tribune of the ball

Hung like a print against the wall,

Pink as Palm Sunday cherubim,(84)

Motionless, mute, tight-laced and trim.

The traveller, bird of passage he,

Stiff, overstarched and insolent,

Awakens secret merriment

By his embarrassed dignity—

Mute glances interchanged aside

Meet punishment for him provide.

[Note 84: On Palm Sunday the Russians carry branches, or used to do so. These branches were adorned with little painted pictures of cherubs with the ruddy complexions of tradition. Hence the comparison.]

XXVI

But my Oneguine the whole eve

Within his mind Tattiana bore,

Not the young timid maid, believe,

Enamoured, simple-minded, poor,

But the indifferent princess,

Divinity without access

Of the imperial Neva's shore.

O Men, how very like ye are

To Eve the universal mother,

Possession hath no power to please,

The serpent to unlawful trees

Aye bids ye in some way or other—

Unless forbidden fruit we eat,

Our paradise is no more sweet.

XXVII

Ah! how Tattiana was transformed,

How thoroughly her part she took!

How soon to habits she conformed

Which crushing dignity must brook!

Who would the maiden innocent

In the unmoved, magnificent

Autocrat of the drawing-room seek?

And he had made her heart beat quick!

'Twas he whom, amid nightly shades,

Whilst Morpheus his approach delays,

She mourned and to the moon would raise

The languid eye of love-sick maids,

Dreaming perchance in weal or woe

To end with him her path below.

XXVIII

To Love all ages lowly bend,

But the young unpolluted heart

His gusts should fertilize, amend,

As vernal storms the fields athwart.

Youth freshens beneath Passion's showers,

Develops and matures its powers,

And thus in season the rich field

Gay flowers and luscious fruit doth yield.

But at a later, sterile age,

The solstice of our earthly years,

Mournful Love's deadly trace appears

As storms which in chill autumn rage

And leave a marsh the fertile ground

And devastate the woods around.

XXIX

There was no doubt! Eugene, alas!

Tattiana loved as when a lad,

Both day and night he now must pass

In love-lorn meditation sad.

Careless of every social rule,

The crystals of her vestibule

He daily in his drives drew near

And like a shadow haunted her.

Enraptured was he if allowed

To swathe her shoulders in the furs,

If his hot hand encountered hers,

Or he dispersed the motley crowd

Of lackeys in her pathway grouped,

Or to pick up her kerchief stooped.

XXX